


papercuts

by steebadore



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Asthma Attacks, Haircuts, M/M, Middle School, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, influencer bucky barnes, instagram husband steve rogers, steve rogers being an idiot since the womb, twitter prompt memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steebadore/pseuds/steebadore
Summary: short, unrelated bits from twitter prompt memes. usually fluffy and sweet.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 85
Kudos: 178





	1. beach + strained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by art by [fadefilter](https://twitter.com/fadefilter/status/1228879689780887554?s=20)

He was beautiful. Golden and glistening in the midday sun, blush pink bikini bottoms straining artfully over the curves of his ass, riding up just enough to show off a tiny strip of the pale, perfect skin hidden beneath the scant fabric. A calculated tease, just enough to show everyone what they were missing. What they couldn’t have. 

Well, everyone but Steve.

“You get it?” Bucky asks, looking over his shoulder. 

“Don’t move,” Steve says. 

“Hold on,” Bucky says, grinning at Steve before tilting down his sunglasses and arranging his face into an aloof, artful pout. 

“Perfect,” Steve says, snapping photos from several different angles. 

“You always say that,” Bucky says, rolling to his feet and dusting the damp sand off the backs of his thighs. 

“Yep,” Steve says, dropping a kiss on Bucky’s shoulder and handing him the camera so he can look for himself. Bucky leans back against him, resting his head against Steve’s shoulder as he scrolls through the shots. His body is sun-warm and solid, and Steve can’t help but run his hands over all that smooth skin. Bucky gives a contented little hum, like a pampered cat, and presses a kiss to Steve’s neck. 

“You’re right though,” he says, passing the phone back to Steve. “I do look perfect.”

“I got a good eye,” Steve says, gathering up their bags and taking Bucky’s hand as they walk back toward the boardwalk. 

“Heard you got a good dick too,” Bucky says with a hip bump. 

Steve grins down at him. “I don’t like to brag…”

“That’s weird because I love bragging about your dick,” Bucky says. “Probably got at least 500K followers talking about it.”

“Nah, that was all you, baby.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Bucky says, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the ice cream shop, and tugging Steve back. 

“Need me to buy you an ice cream cone?”

“Yep.” Bucky nods. “With sprinkles.”

“Am I going to be taking pictures while you eat it real slutty?” Steve asks knowingly. 

“Yep.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” Bucky says, grinning over his shoulder as he drags Steve inside.


	2. fancy hotel + confession

“A nice one this time,” Sam had said when they arrived in Prague. “We’re in an actual city for once and you’ve got more money than god anyway, you can afford to get me a bed that won’t strain my back and a tub I don’t have to worry about contracting a fungus in.”

“And they call me grandpa,” Steve’d said, but he didn’t mind doing something nice for Sam, after dragging him halfway around the world in what was looking more and more like a wild goose chase. A room in the fanciest hotel Prague had to offer was the least he could do.

Well, two rooms. Right next door to each other, close enough for either of them to holler if there was trouble, but separate enough for Sam to get the personal space he requested every so often on this trip. Steve was still wrapping his head around the concept. He’d never been one for crowds, but he couldn’t remember spending much time alone, either. As a kid there’d been his ma, of course, and school. And Bucky. And later, tenement apartments, with walls so thin you might as well have been living with your neighbors. And Bucky. Then barracks, then bedrolls. And Bucky. 

Alone was a concept that only lived in this future time, the liminal space between when he’d had Bucky and when, he had to believe, he’d get him back. 

It takes him three tries to get the door open with the little plastic card. Can’t much figure why that’s an upgrade from an actual key, and he knows Sam or Natasha would give him rations of shit for that if he said it out loud. He makes a mental note to bring it up, and is still smiling when he walks into the room and--and he smells him. It’s like lightning licking up his spine, every nerve singing to life at the scent of sweat and salt and home he hasn’t experienced for seventy some years.

“Bucky.” He’s not even sure he really says it, it comes out so quiet. Reverent. Afraid. He doesn’t want to move, to breathe, to make any sound that might scare Bucky off. He’d stop his frantic heart if he could, just to make him stay. 

The dark shape of Bucky emerges from the shadowed corner. Like an afterimage that lingers, blurred and distorted but still recognizably him. “Steve?” he says, like he’s not sure. His voice is quiet, hesitant.

“Yeah,” Steve says in a hoarse whisper. “You know me?”

There’s a long pause, and then, as though it’s dragged out of him: “I want to.”


	3. locker room + breathe

“Rogers, slow down,” Bucky says, taking in the bright pink of Steve’s cheeks and his heaving chest. 

“Shut up, I’m fine,” Steve says, shooting Bucky a tight grin over his shoulder as he runs back onto the field. 

Bucky shakes his head and follows after his stupid dumbshit best friend, like he always does. What did he expect. He knew there was a fifty-fifty chance pointing out Steve was one wheeze away from an asthma attack would just make him push harder to prove him wrong. LIke this soccer match in third period gym class was a test of his goddamn honor instead of glorified recess. 

But it was still good to see Steve’s sharp, triumphant smile when they won, to have his eyes scan the field until they found Bucky’s so they could share the moment of victory, even if Bucky was content to hang back with all the less athletic kids, staying in the middle of the pack and moving with only enough hustle to keep him from getting called out by the asshole gym coach. 

Bucky hated gym class down to his fucking soul. As if middle school wasn’t awkward enough without mandatory physical activity in criminally unflattering shorts. At least he had Steve in the class with him. Even if he was surprisingly good at this sports bullshit. 

Speaking of Steve….Bucky looks around for the bright shock of blond hair on a little dumbass’ body, and finally spots him--way over on the black top, weaving his way toward the locker room, one hand clutching at the collar of his sweaty gym shirt. 

Fuck. 

Bucky may not have bothered to get over a fast walk during the game, but he makes record time across the field, crashing into the locker room to find Steve straddling the bench, gasping and wheezing, his face pale and sweaty as he digs through his backpack for his inhaler. 

“You fucking idiot,” Bucky hisses. “How many times have I told you to keep it in your pocket?”

“It’s--”

“Don’t even fucking say it,” Bucky growls, and slides onto the bench behind Steve, tugging at Steve’s elbows until he put his hands behind his head. He wraps an arm around Steve’s middle and drags him closer until his back is flush against’s Bucky’s chest, concentrating on keeping his own breathing calm and deep for Steve’s body to unconsciously mimic. 

The routine is rote by now, Steve’s head lolling back onto Bucky’s shoulder as he struggles to slow his breathing, while Bucky rummages blind through Steve’s wreck of a backpack until he finds the plastic inhaler at the bottom, giving it a couple shakes before handing it off to Steve. 

The worst is what’s next: what seems like hours between Steve taking the medicine and when it actually starts to work. The rush of adrenaline begins to ebb, making Bucky shaky and sick. He presses a hand to Steve’s chest, his heart beating frantic and fast against his palm. Bucky lets his head fall to Steve’s shoulder, pressing his face to his sweaty neck as he tries to keep his breathing slow. One of Steve’s hands sinks into his hair, his nails making little scritching sounds against his scalp, the way he knows Bucky likes. It’s as close as Steve’ll get to saying sorry. Or thanks, probably. But it’s enough. 

They stay like that for awhile, even after Steve’s breathing has evened out. Steve’s neck smells like salt and the sharp green of cut grass. Beneath it are the scents of the shampoo and laundry detergent Miss Sarah buys, as familiar to Bucky as his own. Something about it makes Bucky feel...he doesn’t know. Warm, maybe. Like getting into bed on a cold night when you just got your sheets out of the dryer. It’s comfortable. 

The noise of the rest of the class approaching the locker room startles them apart. They open their lockers almost in unison, shucking off their gym clothes and changing without making eye contact. Bucky’s hands are still shaking as he buttons his shirt. 

Steve slams his locker shut, and shoots a rueful grin at Bucky. His cheeks are splashed pink, his voice still threaded with a little wheeze. “See you at lunch?”

“As long as you don’t do anything stupid between now and then,” Bucky says. 

“Nah,” Steve says, walking backwards with a wry smile. “I’m leaving all the stupid with you.”

“Asshole,” Bucky murmurs, unable to help the answering smile that spreads over his face as he shrugs on his backpack and follows Steve out of the locker room. 

He keeps one hand in his pocket, fingers curled around his palm where he can still feel the phantom drumbeat of Steve’s heart.


	4. soothe

He closes his eyes and holds his breath, bracing himself for it, fingertips digging into his knees. He thought it would be jarring, like the metallic whir of the chair or the sound of a knife unsheathing by his ear, but he finds it soothing, actually. The scissors make soft shushing sounds before every decisive _snip_ , strands of his long hair tickling his bare shoulders as they fall to the floor. It makes him think of a dim bathroom, thin fingers leaving charcoal smudges on his neck, laughing blue eyes and a mouth close enough to kiss. “But your curls are so pretty, Buck.” _No_.

He reaches further back. A bright warm kitchen and a woman’s soft hand on his face, the faint scent of yeast and caraway on her skin. “Be still, Jamie love.” 

He’s trying.


	5. sunglasses

“Take them off,” Steve says through gritted teeth without looking at Bucky. They’re supposed to be undercover. A happy couple enjoying the beach, paying no attention whatsoever to the guy lounging in the cabana next to them. 

“No,” Bucky says, taking a loud slurp from his pina colada and adjusting his earbud. “I love them.”

“Buc-- _Jimmy_ ,” Steve hisses. “Don’t you think it’s a bad idea to--”

Bucky turns to Steve, tilting down the bright blue Captain America novelty sunglasses he’d picked up at the airport, Captain America’s ham-handed likeness glaring at Steve in self-righteous assholery in stereo from either side of the lenses. “Grant, baby,” Bucky says condescendingly. “In what world would _I_ ever wear these tacky ass monstrosities? It’s a perfect cover. Shut up.”

“Well, I think you’re being a little unfair,” Steve mumbles, stung. “They’re not that bad.”

Bucky smiles serenely. “So why are you arguing?”

“Shut up,” Steve says, flopping back down on his lounge chair.


	6. bright

The room is bright when he wakes up, late morning sun pushing belligerently through their gauzy curtains, spearing straight into his throbbing eyeballs. He can feel it even with his eyes closed, the red pulse behind his lids that means it’ll be agony to open them. 

He rolls over on their squeaky mattress and plants his face unerringly into Steve’s bony lap, knocking away his sketchbook in the proces. 

“Hey!” Steve says, but there’s no heat in it. 

“ _Steeeeve_ ,” Bucky whines into Steve’s threadbare shorts. 

“Told you not to try to drink those girls under the table,” Steve admonishes, but he sinks his fingers into Bucky’s messy curls anyway, one hand kneading gently at his neck, the other running soothing circles over his pounding head. “Queers don’t mess around, Buck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, going boneless under Steve’s hands. 

He’ll know better next time. If there is a next time. Steve maybe won’t want to invite Bucky around his new queer friends after last night. He doesn’t think he’d said anything wrong, just got a little sloppy is all. After all, he doesn’t care if Steve’s queer, so long as he doesn’t go making any new best friends. 

So long as he doesn’t stop rubbing Bucky’s head just like this. Bucky yawns and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, like the world’s skinniest pillow. 

“You gonna lay about like this all day, lazy bones?” Steve laughs.

“Mmhm,” he mumbles. 

“Okay, Buck,” Steve says quietly, running his fingers through Bucky’s curls.


	7. asgard + stars

“I hate it,” Bucky hissed, hunching into himself. 

“I know, Buck,” Steve said, pressing closer even though Bucky was practically koaled to his side already, using Steve as a human shield. “We’re almost there.” 

“There” was the entrance to their building, an unfortunate six hundred feet walk from where the car’d had to drop them off, due to a delivery truck blocking the curb by the door. It was January, bitter cold and mean with it, the icy wind biting into the one bare inch of skin on his whole body, turning his goddamn eyeballs into ice cubes. 

He unzipped Steve’s damp coat and pressed himself up against his warm be-sweatered front once they got in the elevator, sticking his cold nose in the hollow of Steve’s throat and making him yelp. He deserved it though. “Can’t believe you made me go out in this,” Bucky grumbled.

Steve pet down Bucky’s back--not that Bucky could feel it through the six layers of fabric, but Steve’s biceps bunching around his face telegraphed the move. “You can’t stay holed up in the house all winter. It’s not good for you.”

“These barbaric conditions aren’t good for me either,” Bucky sniffed, his petulance ruined when the elevator opened at their floor and Steve merely lifted him around the hips and stepped out into the hall instead of making Bucky move from his warm burrow. 

“If you want me to leave the house in the winter,” Bucky said, unwrapping his scarf and throwing it over the armchair as he moved toward the bedroom, “you should take me some place where it isn’t winter.”

He stripped off his clothes in meticulous order, limiting the amount of bare skin exposed at any one time, even if the temperature in their house was kept at what Bucky called comfortable and Steve described as suffocating. Once he was fully enrobed in sweatpants, hoodie (Steve’s), and fuzzy socks, he got into bed and pulled the covers around him. It was only three in the afternoon, but after this harrowing weather experience, he was going to need at least two hours under a minimum of three blankets to recover. 

“Okay, where then?” Steve asked when he came into the bedroom a few moments later, and handed over a mug of tea. It was hot enough to burn Bucky’s tongue, and if he closed his eyes he could feel the warmth of it sliding down his throat into his belly, easing the chill that seemed to reach down to his bones. 

Bucky thought about Steve’s question as he sipped his tea under the covers, listening to the sounds of Steve undressing, feeling the dip in the bed beside him as Steve laid down on top of the covers, ready to act as Bucky’s sentient hot water bottle for the afternoon. 

“Somewhere with water,” he said finally, placing his empty mug on the nightstand and snuggling into Steve’s warm body. “And remote. I want to lay in the sun by the water with no one else around, just me and you.” He paused to squirm closer, finding the optimal spot to lay his head, and adjusting Steve’s arms around him like a meaty, warm cage. 

He was much better than he used to be, when even the hint of a chill could send him into a panicked spiral. But still, a total of ten minutes outside on a damp, icy day had left him tense and exhausted, nodding off almost as soon as he got comfortable. “Somewhere neither of us have been,” he mumbled sleepily. “Where we haven’t had to fight.”

“Hm,” Steve said, and Bucky drifted off, knowing he’d figure something out for them.

* * *

What he didn’t expect was Steve dragging him up to the roof a week later--literally dragging him, as Bucky’d flat out refused to go out in snow--to find Thor waiting for them, grinning like an idiot while his hair was getting blown into a rat’s nest by the wind. Bucky did not envy him the eventual comb out. Hopefully he had a good detangler. 

With barely a word of hello--very uncharacteristic for Thor, who Bucky assumed, in some weird alien quirk of metabolism, derived at least one third of his muscle mass from the sound of his own voice given how often at at what volume it could usually be heard--Thor grasped Steve and Bucky around the waist, shrieked for Heimdall right in Bucky’s ear, and then thrust his hammer into the sky very dramatically. 

Unfortunately, nothing happened. Thor sighed, muttered something about never getting picked up on time, and then repeated the process. A moment later, they were surrounded in iridescent light and then catapulted through time and space. Bucky very much wished he’d had six to twelve business days to mentally and spiritually prepare himself for that experience. He couldn’t tell if it lasted an hour or merely thirty seconds, but eventually, Thor deposited them gently on sunny dock surrounded by the clearest water Bucky had ever seen.

“Um, would you like to tell me what the actual, genuine fuck just happened,” was all Bucky could muster, only remaining upright on his shaky legs by sheer force of will. And also Steve’s arm snaking around his waist. 

“Welcome to my summer cabin,” said Thor as though Bucky had not spoken, having apparently recovered his volume on the journey, and gesturing expansively to the small white cottage behind him. It was nestled into a bank of deep green trees, and beyond it only water, for as far as Bucky could see. 

“Thanks for letting us use it for a few days,” Steve said, clapping Thor on a meaty shoulder. 

Thor waved a hand. “It is no trouble. It’s been many years since my brother and I were able to get away for a summer of fishing and leisure as we once did. I am glad to see it getting used again.” He smiled a little ruefully. “It has been cleaned and stocked, but if you need anything, you know how to find me.” With that he grinned and swung his hammer, catapulting himself to who fucking knew where. 

He was so weird.

“Uh, do you know how to find him?” Bucky asked, turning to Steve. There was no boat as far as Bucky could see, and he was fairly certain Asgard did not have anything as pedestrian as a telephone. 

“Nope,” Steve said, seemingly unbothered, and pulled his shirt over his head. “But he’ll be back at the end of the week. I’m sure we can manage until then.” He began shucking off the rest of his clothes, right there on the dock in broad daylight where anyone could see him. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky hissed. 

“Swimming?” Steve shimmied out of his pants, the sun glaringly bright on his lily white ass. 

“Did you even pack a bathing suit?”

Steve grinned and spread his arms. “It look like I packed anything, Buck?”

“What--what are we supposed to--” Bucky spluttered. “I am not wearing the same underwear for seven days, Steven.”

Steve dove into the water, resurfacing a moment later, grinning and shaking the hair out of his eyes. “It’ll be fine, come on. The water is perfect.”

“Some of us have hygiene standards, I’m not--”

“James Buchanan if you don’t get your prissy little ass in this water in ten seconds I will throw you in myself, coat and all.”

“Ugh, you’re so obnoxious,” Bucky huffed. But he did it. It was a $3,000 coat, after all. And his boots were Prada.

The sun seemed different here. A more delicate warmth that seemed to seep gently into his skin as he removed his clothes and folded them like a grown up before sliding into the lake. The water, too, was different. More buoyant somehow, and so clear Bucky could see straight down to the sandy bottom, and watch the oddly colored fish darting about beneath him.

He couldn’t hide his grin from Steve, who swam closer and wrapped Bucky up, kissing the top of his head. “This pass muster?”

“You coulda warned me.” He bit Steve’s shoulder in emphasis, then pressed a light kiss to the hurt because he felt guilty for being a brat. “It’s beautiful, though.” He sighed, which dissolved into an underwater shriek when Steve dunked him like an _asshole_.  
The rest of the afternoon was spent throwing each other bodily across the lake and generally traumatizing all alien aquatic life forms within a five mile radius, only pausing in their quest to find new methods of drowning another human when the sky began to burn a brilliant orange above them. They floated on the backs, watching it slowly fade and then almost at once, be swallowed up in indigo. It was like Bucky blinked and someone hit a switch, the sky coming to life above him, a blanket of stars blinking awake, two bright moons lighting up the dark, constellations and colors he’d never seen before swirling through the night sky. 

He must have made a noise because Steve took his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm before resting their laced fingers on his chest. Bucky looked over at him, watching the greens and purples reflected on his eyes, and feeling wholly overwhelmed by the gift of this moment, with this man. After everything they’d been through, to end up here: in floating side by side on another planet, stargazing in an alien sky. What the fuck.

Steve looked over at him, his mouth soft and eyes disarmingly fond. “You know otters do this,” he said. 

Bucky frowned. He never know what the fuck went on in Steve’s head. “What?”

Steve lifted their joined hands. “Float along together, holding hands. So they don’t drift apart.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, smiling a little and squeezing Steve’s hand. “That’s cute.”

“Some of them also mate for life,” Steve said, reeling Bucky closer. “Know what that makes us?”

“What?” Bucky asked, a little embarrassed at how soft he sounded. 

“Significant otters.” Smugness dripped from every syllable, Bucky could hear how proud he was of himself for his absolutely terrible joke. 

“I absolutely cannot stand you,” Bucky huffed, hiding his smile when Steve dragged him into his arms and kissed him obnoxiously, digging his fingers into his ribs. “Thor!” he shrieked into the quiet night, his giggles echoing off the water. “Thor, come back! I’ve made a terrible mistake!”

“You know in space, no one can hear you scream, Buck,” Steve leered, the effect a little ruined when he laughed at his own dumb joke.

Bucky sighed, linked his arms and legs around Steve and giving in. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“And you’re stuck with me for a whole week.” He squeezed his arms tighter around Bucky. “There’s no escape.”

“Promise?” Bucky said, leaning his head against Steve’s and watching the stars swirl overhead.

“Yeah, Buck.”


	8. bed + sugar

Bucky startles out of a dead sleep for the second time that morning when he hears Steve’s key in the lock. Well, actually, he startles awake out of a dead sleep when he hears Steve try and fail to get his key in the lock three entire times before succeeding and bursting through the door like a linebacker before he’s even turned the knob all the way. One day he will knock the fucking thing off its hinges and Bucky will have to murder him. No jury would convict him once he presented sufficient evidence of the significant emotional harm his husband, the love child of a disgusting frat boy and a golden retriever that has yet to be neutered, has caused him over these many years. 

He yanks the blankets over his head and huffs as he hears Steve stomping down the hall toward their bedroom, undoubtedly to wake him up in some obnoxious way as though his entire being hasn’t already taken care of that. 

God himself will have to answer to Bucky for the crime of making the love of his life an unbearable morning person. 

He’s full prepared to be grumpy, _as he deserves_ after being woken up first at five forty five by Steve tripping over the shoes Bucky left out by the couch specifically to avoid Steve’s usual stage whispered, “hey, Buck where’d you put my--oh,” when he finds them on the shoe rack where they belong, and then again at eight fifteen on a _Saturday, Steven_ , but then he hears it: the tell-tale crinkling of a paper bag in a meaty fist. He tries not to get his hopes up, and in any case the glimmer of excitement is squashed, not unlike his own body, under two hundred pounds of sweaty, pink dumbass. 

“Wake up, Buck,” he says, the dumbass smile evident in his dumbass voice, pressing his dumbass face to Bucky’s neck with an obnoxious kiss. “I brought you a present.” 

“Get off me!” Bucky shrieks, flailing within his collapsed blanket burrito that is now the approximate temperature of earth’s core. Steve rolls off him with a laugh, and Bucky fights his way out of the blankets, scraping his now frizzy hair out of his face before laying a glare on his grinning asshole of a husband. “What--and I cannot stress this enough--the _fuck_ is wrong with you.”

Steve just shrugs, his grin never faltering under the strength of Bucky’s death glare. And Bucky thinks if he were an actual dog and not just the human representation of one, with the anatomically accurate number of brain cells, he’d have his tongue lolling and one ear pricked. It would be endearing if it were not eight twenty in the morning on a goddamn Saturday. 

“I wanted to make sure you got your doughnut while it was still warm,” he says, handing over the crumpled paper bag. 

“Oh.” Bucky sniffs, not willing to give in just yet, even though he’s spotted the logo. Even though he knows what seasonal doughnut is available right now. He can’t get his hopes up-- _oh_. He pulls out the world’s most perfect, god tier doughnut. Cardamom custard filled pumpkin brioche, god _bless_. 

“You’re forgiven,” he says, taking a big bite and moaning a little. Fuck, it’s so good. Bucky has the best, the sweetest, the most thoughtful husband in the whole world, he’s so lucky. 

“I thought so,” Steve says with a smirk, taking out his own doughnut--a plain, cinnamon sugar dusted, every single time--and hoovering it in two enormous bites. Bucky watches in horror as he dusts his hands off on their clean sheets, like a monster. 

“You’re getting sugar all over the bed,” he says, his horrified shriek a little muffled by the very civilized one third of his own doughnut in his mouth. 

“I always got sugar in the bed,” Steve says, leaning over to kiss on Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but does, however, break off a small-- _very small_ \--piece of his doughnut for Steve. He takes it right from Bucky’s fingers, giving them a little nip on the way, and barely even pauses to chew before saying, “‘s good, sugar,” with a little grin.

What an asshole, Bucky thinks, absolutely not pleased and definitely not blushing even a little.


	9. home + braid

The adrenaline of the fight fades quickly, leaving him heavy with exhaustion and an echoing sense of emptiness. He sits silent in the quinjet, barely hears the tired chatter of his teammates; they know better than to engage him, now. He is far away. Underwater. Buried somewhere deep. It’s not panic or fear that makes him fade into himself; it’s a resting period. A holding room. A weigh station between weapon and man. 

He’s on his bike and heading east within five minutes of landing. The night is cold and wet and the streets are mostly empty--it’s a Tuesday, he thinks, and is grateful for the first coherent thought in hours. His hands are shaking when he parks the bike, but his fingers are sure when he slides the key into the lock, turning the lock and opening the door without a sound. He pauses just over the threshold, breath and body held still, and relaxes minutely when he hears nothing but the familiar night sounds. 

Still, he takes care to be quiet as he removes his boots and stows his bag, walking to the bathroom in silent, socked feet. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror when he strips out of his gear, doesn’t look at his stained suit when he stuffs it into the hazmat bag he’ll return to the Tower for cleaning tomorrow. He doesn’t look at his arm when he steps into the shower, as hot as he can stand, and he doesn’t look at the dark water sluicing from its seams. He breathes deep when he opens the cap of the shampoo bottle, his head filling with the familiar scent of amber oil and chamomile. It loosens something inside him as he works it into his hair with gentle fingers, softens up some of the edges gone jagged and sharp. 

He feels better when he steps out of the shower a long time later, flushed pink like a newly healed wound, smelling soft and clean. He brushes his teeth and rubs cream into his face, and when he plaits his wet hair in a loose braid over his shoulder, he’s finally able to meet his eyes in the mirror. He exhales shakily on a feeling that is familiar but somehow never less than novel: he has come home. He gets to do that now. 

He pads quietly to the bedroom, his body tired but no longer heavy with it. It’s the anticipation of a well-earned rest rather than empty, aching exhaustion that pulls him outside himself. The bed is messy, sheets twisted, comforter bunched up against the footboard. And Steve in the middle, thin limbs sprawled in either direction, snoring softly. The sight makes the last hard knot of tension in Bucky’s gut unfurl; Steve, safe and warm in their bed, taking up every inch of space he can just to prove a point, even in sleep. His life, exactly as he left it. 

His smile goes a little watery when he sees the full water bottle on the bedside time, and a little doodle of Steve giving him a kiss propped beside it. 

Steve stirs sleepily when Bucky slides into bed beside him, rolling over to wrap thin, strong arms around Bucky’s middle. “Okay?” he mumbles sleepily, laying a gentle kiss on Bucky’s chest, hands slipping purposefully over his skin, feeling for any bandages he can’t see without his glasses in the dark.

Bucky catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm and letting himself linger there, nuzzling into Steve’s cupped hand and breathing deep. He smells like their bed. Like Steve--sharp like turpentine, sweet like the clementines he favors. He smells like home. “Yeah,” Bucky says, and closes his eyes.


End file.
